


wars are not won with swords alone

by rievu



Series: do not go gentle into that good night [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, and leaves people sharper than they were before, and they still manage to love each other in the face of destruction, but josephine and cassandra still manage to find each other, when the war hardens everyone that it touches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 02:17:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17357048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: "War forges them into different beings. This is a truth that Cassandra knows very well, and it is something that Cullen accepts with a bowed head and desperate heart. Josephine, on the other hand, watches the danger flicker at her borders. She allows only the edges of war to sharpen her quill and wages battle with her words. Piece by piece, land by land, noble by noble, she gathers them all up in her pockets and resumes her work as usual. She deals in the business of smoothing ruffled feathers, fixing broken things, and gluing the pieces of alliances together for the sake of the whole. War does not change her; it only sharpens her to a sharp acuity."// a series of scenes where cassandra and josephine love each other in the midst of a war that makes them into sharper, harder beings





	wars are not won with swords alone

**Author's Note:**

> this originally started out as a small character study of josephine and what she would be like if she was hardened like leliana. this is set in the "worst" game state, and as such, some character interactions, especially towards the end, may be slightly ooc due to the nature of the hardening.

War forges them into different beings.  
  
This is a truth that Cassandra knows very well, and it is something that Cullen accepts with a bowed head and desperate heart. Josephine, on the other hand, watches the danger flicker at her borders. She allows only the edges of war to sharpen her quill and wages battle with her words. Piece by piece, land by land, noble by noble, she gathers them all up in her pockets and resumes her work as usual. She deals in the business of smoothing ruffled feathers, fixing broken things, and gluing the pieces of alliances together for the sake of the whole. War does not change her; it only sharpens her to a sharp acuity.  
  
_Merchants thrive in war,_ her father once told her. _There will always be someone who needs something in a war._ However, her mother pulled her aside afterwards and told her, _You must be willing to pick the pieces up after a war though. There must be enough to rebuild._  
  
And that is why Josephine gathers influence in her pockets and why she courts approval from nobles across Thedas. It is because she does not think the Inquisitor will leave enough pieces behind to rebuild a broken country.

The Inquisitor is a maelstrom, devastation incarnate with a double-edged sword, a raging fire who burns down anything in her path for the sake of the Chantry and the Inquisition. The soldiers call her the Sword of Mercy and answer her beck and call. Cullen adores her and calls her dedicated. Leliana purses her lips and says that she gets the job done. Cassandra is suspicious at best; she has seen such action within the Seekers, and she knows how the Seekers ended. But Josephine is wary. She watches and waits with her quill in hand.

She always takes care to say things like _your Worship_ or _Lady Trevelyan_ because Trevelyan drinks in accolades as though she is parched. Cassandra cares very little about titles and nobility and addresses her as such: Trevelyan. Nothing more, nothing less. Inquisitor for polite company. “Why do you always call her by her titles?” Cassandra once asks. “She has a name, you know.”

“Why would I?” Josephine returns as she slips on her underclothes. Cassandra remains still in bed with only the sheet to cover her modesty. Josephine’s tempted to pull at the sheet and try for another “distraction,” but work calls to them both. Instead, she chooses to say, “Her Worship prefers titles over names, and I will abide by what she prefers.”

Cassandra regards her carefully before she says, “Titles make you into something less than human.”

“That is undoubtedly what our Lady Trevelyan would prefer,” Josephine says acridly. A rare moment with words that slip unbidden off her tongue. “She would prefer to be one of the exalted saints, the Herald of Andraste with the Maker’s grace Himself. I will continue calling her by her titles as she wishes. If she has any issue with it, she has not mentioned it nor have I noticed.”

That makes Cassandra pause. She gets up, each move silent and slow save for the rustling of the sheets. When she reaches for her own clothes, Josephine passes Cassandra’s underclothes to her. Simple things made of cotton. Not like Josephine’s lace and frills and ribbons seamed along the sides. Although, Josephine will entirely admit she bought an entire new set of underclothes from Orlais in anticipation of the night. Cassandra certainly seemed like she appreciated it last night, and Cassandra pauses to consider Josephine now. Josephine knows this and offers Cassandra her back. Cassandra drifts her fingers and brushes them across the expanse of Josephine’s back. She traces the moles and freckles across Josephine’s skin until finally, _finally_ , she hooks Josephine’s bra together. Cassandra’s hands move in front of her to pull her back into an embrace.

“Be careful,” Cassandra whispers. “Don’t let her get to you. Come back to me safe and sound, Josephine. Promise me this. Be careful.” Even Cassandra knows how high the stakes are in the game that Josephine plays. Josephine shuts her eyes and wants to revel in the sensation, wants to turn and ravage Cassandra’s lips into a kiss that will guarantee her another moment longer in the bed, wants to stay and _forget_ that there is a war raging outside their doorstep. 

But she cannot.

 

* * *

 

 Josephine first meets Cassandra on a cold, windy day on the Kirkwall docks.

She arrives on a ship built with poor lumber. Josephine is a daughter from a naval family. She spent her early childhood running around on Antivan docks and dodging sailors as they hauled their cargo ashore. This, at the very least, is something she knows intimately. You cannot manage a fleet of merchant ships without knowing the tools of your trade, and Josephine’s tools are not limited to lace handkerchiefs and satin dresses.

When the ship docks, Josephine watches the entire process from the deck with a keen eye. She clicks her tongue with a touch of disapproval when the sailors tie their knots and anchor the ship. There were three alternative methods to tie down the ropes that would be stronger and more efficient, but she does not mention a single thing. Instead, she strides off the ship with sure steps and sees Leliana and another figure waiting for her on the docks.

Almost immediately, Leliana crushes her into a tight embrace, and Josephine reaches up to reciprocate. Leliana whispers in her ear, “I missed you, Josie.”

Josephine pulls back to study Leliana’s face. There are deeper dark circles there, and although she does a good job of hiding it, Josephine can tell that her dear friend is exhausted. “I missed you too, Leliana,” she says. “How could I pass an opportunity to see you again? And also, your offer was… Interesting.”

“In a good way, I hope,” Leliana says wryly as she lets go of Josephine’s shoulder.

Josephine glances back at the docks and says under her breath, “That remains to be seen.”

But Leliana’s ears are too keen. “Of course you would say that, Josie,” she says with a laugh. She gestures over to the woman standing beside her and says, “This is Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast.”

“Right Hand of the Divine and Hero of Orlais,” Josephine finishes. “I’m well aware. Your reputation precedes you, milady.”

Cassandra grimaces at the use of the title and instantly responds, “No need for formalities. Just call me Cassandra or Seeker, whichever one is easier.”

So the rumors about Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast are true. She dislikes titles and throws them away at any given moment. A relatable sentiment at times for Josephine, but she still takes the information and tucks it away for later use. Perhaps it will prove useful in the coming months if she is to work with her. And she will admit that Cassandra Pentaghast is a lovely woman. Perhaps in not the most traditional way, but something about the sharp planes of her face and the puckered scar that runs down her cheek is incredibly attractive. Rogueishly handsome, Josephine might even say. Then again, she was always known for being eccentric in her personal tastes.

But she is to be a colleague, and Josephine does not want to deal with the fallout should the worst situation occurs. A break-up is bad enough; she does not want the emotional turmoil to affect her other connections. She has at least three dukes and four lords waiting on her beck and call based on the sheer, tenuous, and thoroughly false thoughts of marriage.

Josephine dips her head and says, “My apologies, Seeker, I did not mean to offend.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine,” Cassandra says with a distracted look in her eyes. Her gaze keeps straying to the left, towards the soot-stained districts further up in this broken city carved into the cliffs.

Leliana notices as well and cuts in to say, “Well, shall we go to your rooms now?”

“That would be lovely,” Josephine gratefully says. She steps forward and follows Cassandra’s sharply defined shoulders down the street leading up from the docks. Some peace and quiet would be welcome as well as a bath. She’s sure she reeks of the Waking Sea and not in the good way.

 

* * *

 

 Cassandra thinks that Josephine will break before they reach Ferelden. For Maker’s sake, the woman wears _gold_ in the remains of a battlefield. She wears fine silks and satins as she walks through the wreckage of Kirkwall, and she wipes down her seat with a lace handkerchief before she sits down. She picks her way over the leftover rubble from the Chantry explosion with the kind of delicacy that all noblewomen seem to have.

Josephine Cherette Montilyet is the very picture of a noblewoman that Cassandra strives to avoid. It’s not that Josephine is distasteful. On the contrary, Cassandra thinks that Josephine is quite pretty. Rich Antivan skin, the rolling accent, the bright eyes. It all serves to accentuate her beauty. But when Cassandra looks at her, she always gets reminded of who she could have been in a different future.

However, Cassandra’s expectations slowly begin to break down when Josephine steps onto the boat. She gets on with ease, and out of all them, gets her sea legs first. She rolls her satin sleeves up to help with various chores on deck, and when she dock, she seems almost sad to leave it behind. Cassandra now holds a slightly better appreciation for Lady Montilyet.

Cassandra still has to choke back a snort when Josephine buys a thicker coat in Amaranthine. Evidently, she did not prepare enough for the Fereldan rains and bitter winds. Nothing quite like the Anders or the coldest parts of Orlais, but Ferelden is its own, unique kind of weather hell. Leliana only tightens her cowl while Cullen seems perfectly at ease in the damp cold. Josephine shivers in her coat, and Cassandra finally offers her a cloak out of pity. When Josephine protests, Cassandra unclasps her cloak and swings it around Josephine’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” she says as she shivers from a new blast of cold wind. _“Muchas gracias,”_ she adds with a soft laugh. Her voice rolls more smoothly in her native tongue, and Cassandra will entirely admit that Lady Montilyet’s voice is _lovely_.

“No problem,” she says. “Just don’t catch a cold before we get to Haven.”

Thankfully, the chilly wind chases away all traces of a blush on Cassandra’s cheeks.

 

* * *

 

The Conclave explodes. The sky tears apart. The world seems to end.

Emphasis on “seems.”

Josephine stares at the Breach with a deep-set worry fermenting in her heart, but she tears her gaze away and focuses on Leliana. She’s wearing herself down to the bone as she tries to redirect her scouts around the numerous riffs and demons in their path. Cassandra is somewhere out in Haven with Cullen, marshaling their limited forces into a semblance of order. And Josephine is here. Alive. That is why the world does not end to her. Because at the very least, they are still standing here, alive and breathing and _hurting_ but still alive.

They are alive for another day, and they are putting the pieces back together as well as they can with their current resources.

Josephine is terrified, yes, but she does what she can.

The door slams open, and with the snow cones Cassandra Pentaghast. The woman is unstoppable as she hauls in large chunks of wood to feed the sputtering fire in their room. “I brought extra wood,” she says as if it weren’t obvious. There’s still snow nestled in her dark hair, and Josephine resists the urge to brush some of them off. Cassandra sets them down beside the fire and brushes some of the wood chips off her hand and into the flames. She glances at Josephine and asks, “Are you doing alright?”

The question startles Josephine. Frankly, no one is doing alright, and she thought that Cassandra didn’t like her as much. Still, Josephine pulls herself together and answers, “As best as I can, Seeker Pentaghast. And you?”

Leliana glances up and interrupts her to ask, “And the prisoner?”

Cassandra glances at Leliana before saying, “I… Am not doing well, Lady Montilyet. And Leliana, the prisoner is still unconscious.” She grits her teeth with the last sentence and clenches her hands into fists. But she answered Josephine’s question first. That stands out to her the most.

Josephine beckons Cassandra over and says, “Oh, Josephine is fine. If I have the courtesy of doing without too many titles, than you may extend the same to me. Please sit down, and warm up by the fire a little bit before you go. If you continue to work without allowing yourself the time to regain your energy, then you might collapse yourself.”

Cassandra looks reluctant to stay, but she takes a seat beside the fire. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulls off her sharp gauntlets and warms her cold hands by the flames. “Thank you,” she says suddenly.

“Oh, there is nothing to thank me for,” Josephine hastens to say. “It is just a fire.”

“No, for the reminder,” Cassandra sighs. “I forget that I have basic human needs too. Eating, sleeping, drinking, all of those are things I have neglected to do recently.”

Leliana lifts her gaze up from the latest scout report to give Cassandra a probing look. Before Leliana can speak though, Josephine says, “Take care of yourself, Cassandra. Don’t let yourself fall apart.”

Cassandra bitterly laughs and says, “What? Everything else has fallen apart. Most Holy is dead.”

Ah. There it is. The elephant in the room, so to speak.

Leliana’s gaze wavers once at Cassandra’s statement. She flinches once before she retreats into herself and builds her walls up again. Josephine files this under “Things to Resolve Later” in her mind and focuses on Cassandra. “No, Seeker, you are doing more than we could possibly ask from you in a situation like this,” she soothes. “There is nothing we can do about the past now. We must focus on the present.”

Cassandra drags a hand down her face and exhales, “I… I am sorry. I did not mean to snap at you like that. I just—“

“It’s understandable, Cassandra,” Josephine says. She gets up to stand beside Cassandra, and her soft, slippered feet make nearly no sound against the wooden floorboards. She lays a single hand on Cassandra’s pauldron and says, “You are doing the best that you can, and that is more than any one of us can ask from you. The same goes for Leliana and Cullen and everyone else involved in the effort of putting things to rights. Is that clear?”

Cassandra nods before she slides in her gauntlets again. The metal clinks against each other and the Seeker prepares to leave. But just before she goes back out into the snowy mess that is Haven, she turns to say, “Thank you, Josephine. Truly.”

It is only one conversation, but it sticks to Josephine. She starts bringing meals and new reports to Cassandra personally. Even after the prisoner wakes up, she still checks in on Cassandra and makes sure that she’s eating, drinking, and sleeping on time.

Josephine doesn’t even know why she does it, but part of her aches when she watches the lone Seeker stand against the chaos. Maker knows she’s doing all she can to keep everyone safe, but Josephine doesn’t know if anyone is doing the same for her.

Reciprocity, she calls it. An exchange, another balance on the ledger.

Her heart may call it something different though.

 

* * *

 

Trevelyan, for lack of a better term, is brutally efficient.

Cassandra discovers this with great alarm when she kills an apostate with the blade of his own staff. It’s such a quick motion. Trevelyan darts in, ducks under the wave of fire that comes towards her, and grabs the staff to deftly plunge it into his heart with her Marked hand.

Half of her still thinks she’s Maker-sent, touched by the Divine to ensure her survival, but the other half of her wonders if Andraste would ever sanction such a use of violence. _But Andraste led an army,_ she thinks. Still, the death is unnerving, and the mage’s blood sticks to Trevelyan’s armor and clothing for a long time.

Their Herald coats her hands in even more mage blood when she hunts down the last remaining pockets of mages within the Hinterlands. Every group of rogue templars they encounter are spared unless they raise their blades against Trevelyan after Trevelyan explains the situation. And the situation is that Trevelyan can and will support the templars in the raging conflict between magic and the Chantry. When Trevelyan frames it like that, Cassandra thinks it’s so easy to pick the Chantry. But Solas’s disapproving looks and the spilled mage-blood across the Hinterlands makes it difficult for her to subscribe directly to Trevelyan’s ideology.

She brings it up casually during dinner once. For some reason, Josephine stops by her rooms to eat dinner with her almost every night. Now, Cassandra just chalks it up to another eccentric habit of the ambassador.

“Her brother is part of the Templar Order, I think,” Josephine says. Her eyes are thoughtful as she considers the new idea..

“Ex-templar from the Ostwick Circle,” Cassandra adds. “Or at least, that’s what Cullen told me.”

Josephine eats a bite of the mushy stew before tapping her chin with her index finger. “But she had another brother once,” she says.

“Once?”

Josephine shrugs and says, “I don’t know if the rumors are true, but some say that the eldest Trevelyan brother was in love with a mage.” She sets her spoon down and starts gesturing with her hands as she continues, “He tried to help his lover escape, but something happened. Perhaps the mage turned into an abomination or perhaps the mage accidentally killed his lover. But no matter what the truth may be, Trevelyan’s brother was killed in something involving a mage.”

“Ah,” Cassandra says, at a loss for words. The tale strikes too close for comfort. She shoves another spoonful of food in her mouth to avoid the burden of having to continue on the conversation as she considers Trevelyan. She too had a brother killed by mages. She can understand the blinding, aching sense of rage. But it appears as though Trevelyan has not let it go.

Josephine pushes the food around in her plate as she says, “Her brother, the ex-templar, sent a letter to me. He asked us to stop his sister before, and I quote, ‘before she breaks Thedas apart for her vengeance.’ He also asked that we offer more help to the mages. I believe he has heard the rumors of the… Creative methods our Herald has employed to counter the conflicts in the Hinterlands.”

“Really?” Cassandra asks. “Does he intend to come to Haven himself?”

Josephine snorts. That’s another thing that surprises Cassandra about Josephine. She is surprisingly human. She snorts and chatters and strides and huffs out wry giggles despite the layers of satin she covers herself with. No amount of fine fabric can hide that kind of genuine spark. “No, I personally don’t think so,” she says. “Even in Orlais, we heard minor rumors of House Trevelyan in Ostwick. The two don’t get along at all.” She pauses and a sad expression creeps across her face. “I don’t think they ever did after their brother died. That is the only consistent account I hear from the Free Marches about them. Once inseparable and now, permanently distanced.”

Cassandra ducks her head down and wonders if she would be in the same situation. It seems like the Herald and she are cut from the same cloth, the same fate, but Trevelyan never let go of her anger. Everything that Cassandra did, Trevelyan chose the opposite path. Trevelyan may have been what Cassandra could have been, and she shudders.

The memory of the mage-blood sticks with her.

 

* * *

 

Josephine stands in the snow with no cloak, no coat, and stares at the legions of mages marching on Haven. Her heart pounds within the cage of her ribs. Her thoughts fly first to her papers: letters of recommendation, signed contracts, connections with people across the nations. But then, she sees Cassandra with her sword and shield, bellowing out a war cry for the world to hear before she plunges into the fray. That sends cold, chilling horror down her spines.

Because what if Cassandra dies?

The prospect terrifies her, and Josephine presses her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a gasp. She does not know what she will do with herself if Cassandra dies. In truth, the thought never even came to mind, but now that it’s here, she starts to shake.

“Ambassador!”

Josephine looks up. One of Leliana’s scouts stands there, bow and arrow at the ready. “Sister Nightingale sent me to protect you! We’re falling back to the Chantry in case our fortifications fall. Please follow me, Ambassador!” he says. He doesn’t look much older than 18, but his lips are firmly set and his sharp ears prick up. Josephine nods and hurries towards him.

They run, and the scout sends arrows flying behind them. Josephine doesn’t stop to see if his arrows found their mark. She abhors violence. The sight of blood smeared against some of the snow is enough to make her stomach churn, and so, she doesn’t dare to look back. She doesn’t dare to look and see if Cassandra is still alive.

They reach the Chantry, and Josephine fumbles with the heavy door. Blackwall comes running to her side with some of the smiths and a heavy toolbox in his hands. Without a word, he heaves the door open with his hand and holds it open for Josephine to enter. She dips her head in a quick thanks before she hurries to her office door. “Ambassador! You’re going in the wrong direction!” the scout calls out behind her, but Josephine ignores him.

The scent of Minaeve’s work is heavy in the air. She did not put her dissections away before she went to celebrate, and so, the acrid scent of preservatives and flesh remain almost putrid and deeply heavy in the air. Josephine presses her handkerchief to her mouth as she shuffles through her papers and salvages as much as she can. All of her documents go into a thin briefcase. She has others that can contain more, but this is the only one that she is sure is waterproof and fireproof. She had it enchanted by the Antivan Circle before she went back to Orlais, and she relies on the enchantment now.

Her fingers fly over her files, and she thanks the Maker that she religiously organizes her workspace. But as she slides the papers in her briefcase, she suddenly notices one report about the mages in Redcliffe. Josephine whips her head over to the door. The scout is standing there, waiting impatiently with his bow still in hand, but Josephine can’t help but wonder if Trevelyan’s refusal to help Redcliffe led to this… This chaos, this battle. After all, the mages had to come from somewhere, and if legions of Tevinter mages came to Ferelden, Josephine’s and Leliana’s contacts would’ve let them know in advance. Josephine’s blood runs cold as she considers the fact that Trevelyan’s stalwart refusal to help mages may doom them all. And most importantly, Cassandra is out there, fighting both for her life and the lives of everyone else in Haven.

Josephine snaps the clasps shut and runs out with the briefcase in hand. The scout ushers her over to where everyone else is being kept. Some are wounded, bleeding red profusely over the Chantry floor. A few others that are safe press poultices to the wounds and lift elfroot potions to the patients’ lips. “Can anyone cast a healing spell?!” one person cries out with sheer, desperate, and irrational hope. No one can. Trevelyan does not harbor mages if she can help it. Josephine searches the crowd and cannot see Minaeve’s face. She doesn’t think Minaeve would be able to cast healing spells, but it was a hope regardless. Josephine turns her gaze back over to the door, waiting for any news. She wonders if Minaeve will make it out alive. She wonders if Trevelyan will even stop to save her.

But then, Cullen rushes in, red-faced and miserable. “We have an escape,” he announces. “Chancellor Roderick informed us of a secret passage from Haven to the mountains.”

Josephine pushes her way through the other people and demands, “Commander, where is Cassandra?” She glances back at the crowd and adds, “And the Herald? Trevelyan, Varric, and Vivienne. And Cassandra. Where are they?”

She hears the clicking of heels against stone, and behind Cullen, Madame Vivienne hurries down the stair. The woman has ice and frost across her clothes and gloves, and they creep up to coat her skin in delicate, white spirals. She shakes her hand and the magic stops. The ice cracks off and shatters on the ground as she says, “The Herald is sacrificing herself for our escape. We must move quickly.”

Varric and Cassandra come behind her. Notably, they have no survivors with them, but Josephine is so ridiculously grateful for Cassandra’s survival that she cannot focus on anything else. But Cullen gapes at Vivienne. His mouth is open, but there are no words coming out of his mouth. He stumbles back a little bit, and Josephine moves forward to steady him. He looks at her once, and Josephine sees the bare, stricken expression engraved on his face. He tries to shake himself out of it, but he fails. With the grief still in his eyes, he chokes out, “Yes, yes, we must move on. Is there no way to save Adaline?”

He uses her first name. Josephine would never dare.

Vivienne shakes her head. “She refused any help and ordered us to leave,” she says. “She faces the twisted, black dragon that first attacked us.”

Cullen drags a hand down his face, and Josephine wishes she could do something more to ease the pain. But hers is a simple burden to bear. All she has to do is offer a handkerchief and pat his back because _her_ woman is here, safe and sound. Well, Cassandra’s shoulders are heaving with the strain and effort, and she has blood spattered over her armor in rust-red splotches. But she is here, and that is more than what Cullen can boast. His Herald is still out there.

He turns and straightens his shoulders. His voice is surprisingly steady as he commands everyone to move out. Josephine admires him for that. She does not know if she could do the same.

Josephine steps away from Cullen and towards Cassandra, and heedless of the blood, she wraps Cassandra up into a tight embrace. “I thought you were dead,” she gets out before her voice shudders into a sob.

“I… I worried about you,” Cassandra whispers. “But I’m glad you’re safe and sound.” Josephine pulls away to look at Cassandra, and she can see the hesitation flickering in Cassandra’s eyes. Then, she leans in to press a soft kiss on Josephine’s forehead and says, “I would have regretted it if I died in Haven without doing this. I-I’m sorry for the sudden—”

Josephine doesn’t let her finish because by that point, she grabs the edge of Cassandra’s breastplate and yanks her down to kiss her on the lips. If you are going to kiss an Antivan, you must do it properly. Josephine saves Cassandra the trouble by doing a proper kiss for her. And she wonders how she managed to get here, how she managed to have such a lovely woman in her arms, how they both survived.

But no matter. They are here, breathing and surviving and _loving._

And Josephine will take what she can get.

They move out, feet hurrying across the frosty cobblestones, and Josephine can taste the fear lying heavy in the air. Cassandra holds her hand and refuses to let her go, and Josephine takes comfort in that small steadiness. They walk and they walk and they walk. And they make their escape.

Minaeve is nowhere to be found. When she asks Cassandra, she tells her that Trevelyan found a few survivors in the burning wreckage of the huts. She also tells her that Trevelyan did not stop to help them and ordered everyone else to focus on the mage threat. She bows her head and tells Josephine that she’s sorry, but Josephine stumbles on her feet. Cassandra catches her, but Josephine feels numb. So, her suspicions were correct. The rational part of her mind tells her that she cannot blame Trevelyan for this mishap. There were priorities, and Trevelyan made her choice. That choice saved them all, but at what cost? Josephine looks up at Cassandra and asks, “Was there no other way to save them?”

“Maybe we could’ve moved fast enough to save them,” she admits. “I don’t know, maybe we could’ve. But the Herald called for the bigger priority, and I followed her.”

Josephine curls into Cassandra’s arms and holds on tightly. “I’m glad that you survived,” she whispers. “I’m so glad that you survived. At least you made it out alive.”

 

* * *

 

Cassandra looks at Trevelyan before handing her the sword. Trevelyan takes the sword with an eager glint in her eye and raises it up high in the air. She speaks of religion, stability, restoring the Chantry, so many idealistic things that Cassandra agrees with.

But there is a voice at the back of her mind that warns her that she may regret exalting Adaline of House Trevelyan.

Mage-blood is on both of their hands. They are no strangers to the burden of the blade, of lives lost in their hands. They both know the cost of protection and the danger magic poses. But there is something ruthless about Trevelyan that makes Cassandra wary. Mage-blood may be on Cassandra’s hands but at least she doesn’t revel in it the way Trevelyan does.

She shouldn’t be this apprehensive of a decision. But she is.

Cassandra strides away from the courtyard as soon as she is able. Trevelyan stays amongst the crowd and holds hands, passes out benedictions, and brings as much hope as she can give. The refugees and the templars drink it in and even revel in it. Cassandra looks back only once to see bare-faced love shining bright on Cullen’s face. She recognizes it so quickly too and realizes that she knows that expression from catching glimpses of her own face in the mirror when she is with Josephine.

She quickly turns away and starts walking faster. Somehow, her feet take her to where Josephine established her office. A small laugh slips its way past her lips as she remembers how Josephine searched for a perfect room. “One away from the research room,” she insisted. “One away from the scent of flesh and stained whetstones, _mi cariña,_ somewhere that I can work comfortably for days.”

Sure enough, Josephine is already there. She must have slipped out of the crowd just as quickly as Cassandra did. She glances up and a smile illuminates her face. “Good morning, Cassandra,” she says. “Excellent work up there.”

“I did nothing,” Cassandra says. “All I did was hand Trevelyan the sword and let her do all the talking.”

“Well, yes, she does love doing that,” Josephine sighs as she pages through a thick stack of papers.

Cassandra leans over Josephine’s desk to see if she needs anything and spots a few familiar names. Queen Anora, Empress Celene, women of power across Thedas. And now, Lady Adaline Trevelyan is one of them by Cassandra’s own hand. She does not like that concept; she shouldn’t be the one handing out power. However, the fact remains that the Inquisitor is the only one with the Anchor and the only one who can save them from Corypheus. Besides, only Andraste and the Maker could guide the Herald through Haven’s destruction, and Trevelyan herself said that she remembers seeing a woman. Andraste, Cassandra hopes.

Josephine sets her papers down and they make a soft slap against the wooden desk. That startles Cassandra’s thoughts, and Josephine moves over to Cassandra’s side. “Do you, would you mind if I?” she murmurs. She leans up and stands on her toes to reach Cassandra, and instinctively, Cassandra tips her head down. Josephine takes the opportunity to softly kiss Cassandra. “Don’t worry yourself too much,” she whispers against Cassandra’s lips. “What’s done is done.”

Cassandra gives into the moment and angles her head for a deeper kiss. She’s rewarded with a soft moan and sigh from Josephine, and she treasures the sound. She sets her worries aside for now in favor of kissing her love.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra wants a fairy tale romance.

It’s relatable, and it hurts to see the simple want on Cassandra’s face, so blatant and open. How dare they — man, woman, human, elf, dwarf, whoever it may be — refuse a woman of Cassandra’s caliber something so simple and romantic as this? Josephine curls in to cup Cassandra’s cheeks and promises, “I will, Cassandra. We shall dream up a new fairy tale for ourselves.”

Cassandra breaks into a small, hesitant smile, and again, Josephine’s heart bleeds for her. She has had suitor after suitor pile roses and lace at her feet, and she thought nothing of it. Cassandra had nothing more than demon blood spilled beneath her footsteps and a sword and shield in her hands. Of course she would want something like that; her heart is soft and romantic and idealistic to its very core.

Josephine resolves to make it happen. Only the best for her… Josephine pauses on the thought and wonders if she’s allowed to call Cassandra her lover. On that thought, she leans in to lay a chaste, soft kiss on Cassandra’s forehead.

Josephine leaves Cassandra and returns to her office. Her thoughts are in wild disarray as she sits down and ponders the issue. Trevelyan keeps the Inquisition an austere place. She has budgets set for certain things like military expenses and money for renovations. Out of all three advisors, Josephine has the smallest allocated budget. Cullen has the most, and Trevelyan lavishes as much money on him and the military as she can. Part of it seems like pure bias. Trevelyan loves the man and in her small ways; she makes that fact well-known. Trevelyan also loves her military: her gleaming and shining soldiers and knights and templars and chevaliers and whoever else she can swoop up for her great and righteous army. Leliana has the next largest because even Trevelyan understands that battle and warfare requires the light touch of a spy. Infiltration and espionage makes the battle easier for her soldiers. So, Trevelyan allows more money to drop towards Leliana’s pool of funds.

But Josephine? Trevelyan lets Josephine have the barest minimum. Accommodations for visiting dignitaries, money for modest feasts should a particularly important visitor arrive, and things of that sort. Josephine always bristles when the topic of money comes around. She is the ambassador, the diplomat, the treasurer. She should be the one to dictate the Inquisition’s coffers, but Trevelyan takes that away from her. If Josephine didn’t put up a fight every time the issue came up, Josephine is sure that Trevelyan would strip her budget down even more. No matter; Josephine has experience in the arts of appearing rich while having small coffers. Compared to the rest of the nobility, she has been — and is — poor. She even went to the University of Orlais on a _scholarship_ out of all things. But Josephine has always made do. That is why the Inquisition still has influence and relevance unrelated to fear of the army Trevelyan amasses. Oh, Josephine knows she cannot stem the tide forever. One day, the nations of Thedas will demand that Trevelyan yield her armies and her power over. The Inquisition is growing more influential and powerful day by day, and Josephine knows that war makes people desperate. But in times of peace, the Inquisition will be under scrutinizing eyes.

Josephine sweeps those concerns away for another day. That is the future. She will consider that later once the pressing issue of Corypheus gets resolved. But this matter is of more concern. Romancing Cassandra. Josephine cannot withdraw from her personal accounts because they are being used to support her family’s name. But at the same time, Josephine does not know how much she can filter out from the budget to justify her purchases. She already knows what she wants. Nevarran candles, Orlesian chocolates, Tevinter wines, Fereldan roses, Antivan silk, and Rivaini pearls. These are things she settles on first for Cassandra, luxuries that will set the scene of an idyllic and romantic candle-lit dinner. But these will cost money that Josephine doesn’t know if she has.

But she will make it happen.

Josephine makes a new budget which is only larger by a handful of gold. She hides the extra money in long ledgers and long lists in her small, precise handwriting. Then, she waits until Trevelyan arrives, bloodied and worn-out, from the Western Approach. Trevelyan is furious as she leans on a crutch in the war table. Her armor has dust and blood crusted over it, and she complains loudly about the upstart Venatori who thinks he can twist and convert the Grey Wardens into his own, personal army.

That is when she hands the budget over to Trevelyan.

Just as she expected, Trevelyan skims the budget and focuses on the final number. “Why is it bigger than before?” she demands.

Josephine inclines her head and taps one section of the paper. “In light of recent developments, I have been pulling in contacts across Thedas to provide more information on Venatori movement and resources for us to use in our hunt,” she says.

Trevelyan pauses as she reconsiders the numbers. She looks up and comments, “That sounds like something under Leliana’s purview.”

Josephine rolls one of her map pieces in her hand as she answers, “Leliana has her scouts, I have my nobles.”

“Very well,” Trevelyan sighs. In a rare moment of charity, she signs off on the numbers and says, “You may add another 200,000 gold to your budget for connections specifically related to the Venatori threat. If you do so, I want weekly reports on new information and what you’re doing to obtain it.” She glances down on the map and shrugs, “You don’t have to put your marker down on the map. I don’t think it would be easy to map out an entire network of nobles. Thank you for your efforts, Lady Montilyet.”

Josephine blinks before she regains her composure. “Thank you, Inquisitor,” she says.

She won’t waste this opportunity. If anything, Trevelyan taught her that and that alone.

 

* * *

 

When Cassandra walks through the Fade, she catches ghostly glimpses of Josephine. Some of them are Josephine in Haven but broken and bruised. Some of them are Josephine tainted with red lyrium. Some of them aren’t even Josephine but instead, they are moon-bleached bones with no flesh remaining on them. Cassandra still knows that they are meant to be Josephine though.

Her epitaph on her grave reads “Helplessness,” and Cassandra knows it’s true. Her biggest fear: being unable to do anything. That word brings up old memories of Anthony’s death and watching Haven fall under the weight of the Venatori. Most importantly, it makes Cassandra wonder if she will ever be able to protect Josephine.

Josephine deals in different business than her. Josephine deals in hidden deals wrapped in swathes of silk and velvet, quiet and deadly words exchanged over a feast to settle the fate of a nation. All these things and more are things Cassandra is not well-versed in. She left that life for the life of a Seeker long ago, and Cassandra knows that Josephine will never step onto a battlefield. That is Cassandra’s domain and where she can protect Josephine the best. But Josephine will not be there. Cassandra cannot protect Josephine from the machinations of Orlais or the politics of Ferelden.

All she can do is slog through the bodies and cut them all down before the tides of war can ever hit Josephine’s doorstep. But she knows that will not be enough. Josephine fights a war as well but with the hearts and minds of people in power rather than the bodies thrown at either side in this large, petty war.

That makes Cassandra both miserable and heartened; she must make her way out of this shifting, ephemeral Fade to return to Josephine’s side.

When Cassandra comes back from the Fade, she clings onto Josephine’s skin and limbs and body tighter than she ever has. When Josephine peels the armor and the torn fabric off of Cassandra, she shakes, almost as if the armor was the only thing grounding her. But Josephine comes closer, offers her arms as a replacement for the armor, shields her from whatever nightmares haunt her from that journey.

Josephine offers her own rooms that night rather than Cassandra’s as they’ve done before. She pulls out her finest oils, her most expensive soaps, and washes the grime and blood off of Cassandra’s skin. She sweeps the pads of her fingers across the scars and new bruises that bloom along the marble of Cassandra’s skin, and she whispers sweet nothings into Cassandra’s ear in her native Antivan.

Cassandra opens up, offers herself to Josephine, in the most genuine and honest way that Josephine’s ever been offered. And men and women across Thedas have offered to give everything to Josephine before. She is not a stranger to riches and wealth and sex and power and influence. Anything that a person could own. But Cassandra offers her love, a harbor for her heart, and Josephine — a merchant’s daughter, a woman of Antiva, carved from gold and the rising tides of the sea — finds a place for herself within the space in Cassandra’s arms.

And she accepts.

 

* * *

 

Cullen starts taking lyrium again.

He no longer looks as bone-aching and weary in the war table. He returns to his work with a newfound vigor, but Cassandra eyes him suspiciously. Cullen’s hands still shake from time to time, but now, he smells electric, like the air before a lightning strike. Josephine is not a mage, but even she can tell the scent of lyrium after so many months of passing templars in the halls and courtyard.

“He could have done it,” Cassandra mutters, low and angry. “He was doing _so well_ , and then, he throws all his efforts away for the sake of relief and a pretty girl.”

Josephine tries to make the situation lighter by nudging her with her elbow and saying, “Do you have an issue with pretty girls?” When Cassandra glances at her, she bats her eyes at Cassandra. That earns her a half-hearted shove and a huffed out laugh. Good enough for her.

Cassandra reaches out for Josephine’s hand and rubs her thumb over the back of Josephine’s hand. She exhales heavily before saying, “It will kill him at the end. A moment’s worth of respite for a lifetime of torment. One day, he will lose his mind completely, and then, our _Herald_ will see what she has wrought.”

“Perhaps she did it for the sake of love,” Josephine tries. She has no idea why she’s defending Trevelyan out of all people, but she thinks it might defuse the situation a little bit. Just a little bit, just enough to soothe Cassandra’s fury, just enough to keep another problem at bay. She cannot take another meeting full of shouting and angry jabs like the night before. “It’s difficult to see the one you love suffering.”

“But she’s dooming her own lover,” Cassandra snaps, harsh and cold. “Why?! I can’t understand _why_.”

“I don’t think any of us can understand her,” Josephine whispers, voice low and barely audible.

Cassandra’s gaze darts over to her, runs down the lines of her face before settling back on her eyes. She shuts her eyes and inhales the cold night air deeply. “True,” she concedes. “But she works for the Chantry’s benefit. She has her ideals, and she works tirelessly for them. I will give her that much.”

Ah, another point of contention between them. Josephine still doesn’t think that Trevelyan is doing what is best for the Chantry. Their Herald is out there to achieve her own extreme ideals of what the world should be like, and Josephine believes that the Inquisitor will destroy everything in pursuit of that lofty goal. But she will not argue with Cassandra tonight. Instead, she leans up for a soft kiss. Cassandra’s lips curve up against hers, and Cassandra lets Josephine sink into her arms.

They will set this issue aside for another day.

 

* * *

 

 Cassandra doesn’t like parties. Never has, never will. The Inquisition uniform is tight, and its unfortunate color makes it nearly impossible to be ignored. The scarlet veritably screams out “Bonjour, Orlesians, I am here to be made fun of!!”

And oh, the Orlesians make good on that message.

Cassandra has to circle around the ballroom constantly in an effort to evade the conversations nobles try to trap her in, and she holds onto a glass of red wine like it’s a lifeline. When someone comes up to talk to her, she just starts sipping wine whenever the conversation pauses and she’s expected to talk. It’s a trick she picked up when she became the Right Hand of the Divine and spent her first four years in Orlais. It’s not a _great_ trick, but it works when you take small, infinitesimal sips.

She finally settles in a corner and tries to avoid anyone else’s gaze. She deliberately chooses a corner near Commander Cullen because all of the Orlesians immediately flock around him. Unfortunately for the Commander, he’s also wearing the same scarlet uniform and has far more popularity thanks to his good looks. Cassandra thanks the Maker for Cullen Stanton Rutherford in that very moment.

“Having fun?”

Cassandra glances behind her to see Josephine with her own glass of wine. It’s a lighter, sweeter dessert wine from what she can tell. It’s just so _Josephine_ , and Cassandra smiles. Suddenly, the night seems a lot better. She sets her glass down on a nearby windowsill and Josephine follows suit.

“Not really,” she answers. “I never liked parties.”

“Oh? I feel the same,” Josephine sighs. “I normally like parties, so I don’t know why I feel this way about it.” She plucks at her sleeve bitterly and says, “Perhaps it is the attire, perhaps it’s the fact that the Inquisitor is walking around with at least five blades hidden on her.”

“I bet Leliana has more hidden on her and around the palace,” Cassandra quips. But then, she frowns, “What are you talking about? You are the only one that manages to make this blasted uniform look good.” She considers Josephine for a moment before she takes inspiration from a _Swords and Shields_ scene. “May I even say,” she whispers in Josephine’s ear. “You look wonderful a-and…” Cassandra stumbles on the last word before she flushes a deep red that rivals the color of her uniform.

Josephine pulls back enough to cheekily wink at Cassandra and says, “Yes? Go on.”

Cassandra slumps and rests her head against Josephine’s as she chokes out, “S-sexy.”

“Ah, now that wasn’t so difficult to say, _cariña,”_ Josephine croons. The glint in her eye is positively alarming, and she takes her turn to throatily whisper, “I think you would look even prettier on my bed with half the uniform off, no?” She smoothes the pad of her thumb across Cassandra’s lips and hums, “I always loved the way military uniforms looked. There used to be a fad in Orlais with all the buttons and trimmings and capes and sashes and things of that sort. The buttons make clothing a pain to put on, but it is _delightful_ to slowly take them off. Button by button, kiss by kiss. Doesn’t that sound lovely, Cassandra?”

Cassandra’s blush is now a violent vermilion when Josephine pulls away, laughing a soft giggle. She gives Cassandra a wink and says, “Leliana likes to baby me, but never underestimate an Antivan when it comes to passion. Don’t hide your face, amor, I like seeing you. And I daresay that you are even more gorgeous than someone like me in this wretched uniform. You have the lovely shoulders and arms for it.” She nods towards Cullen and laughs, “And I suppose we must thank our Commander for giving us such an opportunity. All the attention is on him as per usual, but now, we can use it to our advantage, no?”

She kisses Cassandra softly but nips her lips as she goes. “I’m afraid I only came to check on you,” she sighs. “But Leliana wants me to distract a few nobles while our dear lady investigates the palce, and I must make a few connections with a certain duke. Take care, my love, I will see you when this is over.”

With that, she takes her leave, but she leaves her wine behind. Cassandra sighs and thoughtfully rubs her lip with her finger. Josephine leaves the red stain of her lipstick behind, and somehow, that sends a thrill down Cassandra’s spine.

 _Lovely, passionate lover of hers,_ she fondly thinks. It’s rare to see Josephine in such a lighter, playful mood as of late. Here, she is in her element, and it’s a joy to watch her. Josephine spends so much time in her office, mired in work, and the arts of war have made her into a diplomatic weapon. She is still the refined lady that Cassandra first met on the docks of Kirkwall, but instead of the shy smiles and sweet innocence, Josephine seems more like Leliana now.

That thought concerns Cassandra, but for now. she watches Josephine disappear into a crowd with love on her mind.

 

* * *

 

 "You used to be softer, Josie,” Leliana suddenly says.

Josephine turns to look back at her, and the flickering light from her candle casts a strange shadow over Leliana’s face. The torches on the walls don’t help either. Josephine gazes at Leliana and feels strangely surprised to see her with such a pensive expression. “Did I?” Josephine murmurs. “I feel very much the same as I was before.”

“No, Josie, you used to be softer,” Leliana sighs as she leans against the war table. She braces one hand against the polished surface, nearly knocking down one of Cullen’s markers on the map. “Sometimes, I wonder if we did the right thing with the Inquisition, if we exalted the right person, if we became the right people to lead this cause to the end.”

“I could say the same about you, Leliana,” Josephine says. “You push yourself too hard sometimes, almost to the brink of… Whatever the end may be.” She takes a step closer and with concern, asks, “Did something happen? Do you… Do you not want me to work with the Inquisition anymore?”

“Maker, no,” Leliana gasps, her eyes wide. Based on her expression, it’s clear to Josephine that Leliana never even entertained the thought. An Inquisition without its ambassador would be crippled, mangled, bereft of any influence. No matter how many swords and soldiers the Inquisition accumulated, that could not replicate Josephine’s touch. Leliana casts her gaze down and sighs, “No, no, I do not want you to leave, Josie. It would be the end of us all. But sometimes, sometimes, I think that the Inquisition changed both of us.”

“For the better or worse?” Josephine inquires. She sets her tablet down on the table, nudging aside more of Cullen’s markers. She’ll put them back in the right position before the Commander or the Inquisitor come back. Most of the markers on the map are Cullen’s anyways. None of hers or Leliana’s are even within the general perimeter of her tablet. The candle sputters, and for a moment, Josephine thinks it’ll extinguish itself. But the flame persists and puckers the wick into black, curling soot.

Leliana doesn’t answer.

Josephine sighs and slumps her shoulders. “The Inquisition takes,” she starts out. The door is shut, and the wood is thick. No one could listen in even if they wanted to. “Perhaps, it takes too much,” she says. “It takes and takes and takes until there is nothing left. It reforges you into a thing of war, into another one of its weapons. Am I wrong?”

“No,” Leliana says after too much silence. “You are not.”

“Then, I think that is our answer,” Josephine says with a sense of finality. “That’s what we’ve become, Leliana. We’ve become directors of war.”

“We’re fighting a war,” Leliana tries.

Josephine arches an eyebrow and says, “That does not mean we should become war itself, but that is what we are now. You’re a hero of the Blight, Leliana. Did that war change you as much as this war has?”

It’s a low blow to strike. Both of them know this, but both of them are so tired, so aching, so worn out to the point where they cannot muster up more than a flinch. Even Josephine’s surprised at the sharpness of the words that tumble out of her mouth. Trevelyan is more contagious than she originally judged the noblewoman for.

But Trevelyan whets them all on the edge of her righteous march on Corypheus and the magic that permeates Thedas. She does it with glorious vengeance and with glorious purpose, and Josephine wonders if she knows how much she’s hardened them all.

Josephine lifts her tablet back up and wordlessly puts all the markers back where they were. As she examines the map once more, she notes that Trevelyan’s removed her markers of diplomacy and replaced them with the military insignia. So, she intends to march an army down to an arl’s castle to get what she wants? Josephine wants to sink down on her knees and scream. That will never work. Ferelden arls will hold onto their lands with a bitter viciousness honed by years of rebellious Fereldan history. Cullen out of all people should know the nature of Ferelden’s people and their infamous stubbornness. Josephine makes a small mark on her paper. She thinks she can get a raven down to the arl faster than Cullen’s men can march.

Leliana clears her throat and says, “The Warden told me, once upon a time, to hold onto a sense of humanity, to not slip from the edge, but I can no longer see how we can continue like this.”

Josephine raises her gaze up to meet Leliana’s, and even she is taken aback by the glinting coldness of her eyes. “Like what?” she exhales.

Leliana shakes her head. “Very well, Josephine,” she says. “A thousand lies, a thousand deaths. If it achieves the goal, then let us do it together.” She moves over to Josephine’s side and plucks Cullen’s marker away from the arl’s location. In its stead, she deposits her own marker and Josephine’s. She glances up to meet Josephine’s gaze and says steadily, “Shall we begin?”

Josephine hesitates, only a moment, before she takes the metaphorical step forward and dips her head.

“Let us begin.”

 

* * *

 

 "You cannot pass any further, quickling child.”

Trevelyan arches an eyebrow, and Cassandra can feel the world start to unravel to its end. Trevelyan never takes _no_ for an answer. Instead, she lifts her chin and asks, “What makes you think you can stop me?”

“You have spilled enough elven blood in our temple,” he evenly says. “We will defend our goddess to the death.”

“Very well,” Trevelyan says carelessly. “Tell your precious pagan goddess hello for me then.” She unsheathes her sword and points it at Abelas. “I would thank you for your assistance, but lying can be considered a sin,” she laughs.

“Inquisitor!” Solas protests, voice angry and hard. His eyes are flinty with the fury he struggles to restrain. “We cannot do this! You have done _enough.”_ Cassandra feels very much the same way. Her armor is coated with the blood of ancient elves that blocked their way after Trevelyan began attacking.

Trevelyan readies herself into a military stance as she says, “You do not determine what I can or cannot do, Solas. We march on. Morrigan, ready yourself. You must be prepared to do what you informed me you could do.”

“Very well, _Inquisitor,”_ Morrigan sneers. Cassandra doesn’t know how the woman can add that much disdain into a single word, but she does. Morrigan has no patience for the Inquisitor, and Cassandra suspects that both Trevelyan and Morrigan are using each other to further their goals. As much as Trevelyan despises magic, there are some things that cannot be achieved otherwise, and Morrigan supplies that. For now.

Trevelyan dives into battle with a vigor that startles Cassandra. Morrigan casts a glyph of paralysis and Trevelyan goes after Abelas. A vicious smile tears its way across her face, and Cassandra looks away as Trevelyan brings her sword down. Solas does not turn away. Instead, he shuts his eyes. He looks pained and bone-weary, and the blood of his brethren lies dark and bruised on his skin and on his robes. Neither of them participate in this last murder, and they quietly grieve as the last sentinel of Mythal falls to the ground. Only a corpse, but once, that corpse was something more, something more than future carrion, than future bones, than blood dried and crusted on the floor. Cassandra prays that his gods — if not, the Maker — will find him a better place than this.

Solas opens his eyes, slowly, ever so slowly, and now, Cassandra sees the aching, mind-consuming look in his eyes that hollows his expression and makes him seem haunted. Cassandra recognizes that look from when Trevelyan slaughtered the spirit ghost of Wisdom that was once his friend. But this time, there is a bitterness, a forged iron in his gaze, and Cassandra knows that Trevelyan hammered that anger and fury out with the steady beats of her sword over the past year.

In the end, Cassandra follows the Inquisitor to the Well because this is what she has wrought. She exalted Trevelyan with her own hand, brought her close to apotheosis by calling her things like _Herald_ and _Inquisitor_ , and now, she must see her folly to its end. Likewise, Solas follows Trevelyan, but there is a bitter twist to his lips as if he holds poison in his mouth with every step he takes. They are both bloodied and bruised by the battles Trevelyan wields, and Cassandra realizes that they are all nothing more than tools in Trevelyan’s set of tactics. Cassandra for a sword, Solas for a barrier, Varric for lockpicking tools, Iron Bull for an axe, Vivienne for a spear of ice.

Morrigan for a vessel, Cassandra thinks, as Trevelyan orders Morrigan to drink from the Well. The Well of Sorrows is aptly named, and even Solas seems like he is close to falling on his knees and screaming out his grief. Cassandra knows that Trevelyan considers mages to be disposable, and Morrigan must be the same. A container for magic that Trevelyan does not understand, and a container that is willing to heed Trevelyan’s orders for now.

What makes a person disposable to Trevelyan? Cassandra watches Morrigan convulse in the middle of the Well and wonders when they will cease to become valuable to Trevelyan. A sudden thought chills her when she wonders when Josephine will become useless to Trevelyan. The Inquisitor needs alliances to fight her holy war, but when the war is over, Cassandra fears what Trevelyan may do if she must throw away her unneeded ambassador.

Cassandra tamps down the thought when Corypheus’s forces start to shake the foundations of the temple. She runs towards the eluvian, but she pauses only once to look behind. She sees the devastation Trevelyan left behind and rolls the thought over in her head.

Then, she runs. For now, she is a tool that still has its sharp edge. For now, Josephine remains one of the key tools in Trevelyan’s hands, and Cassandra must be satisfied with that. For now.

 

* * *

 

 Josephine and the Iron Bull are two sides of the same coin. He fancies that he is closer to Leliana, and in truth, their positions as spies make them similar. But in all other aspects whether it be diplomacy or observation, they are the same. Josephine notes down the glint in the Iron Bull’s single eye when Trevelyan casually commands him to do what she wants. Her Worship mentions a fleet of ships, a new legion of soldiers, without a single care. Soldiers are soldiers, and she moves them like toys across a map. Trevelyan does not know the implications of what she says, but Josephine does. So does the Iron Bull.

The Iron Bull is different after the dreadnought debacle. He and Trevelyan came back from that with cool, stone-faced expressions. The Iron Bull laughs and jokes as he usually does, but there is a sharper edge to his voice. He drinks more alcohol, and he no longer hosts parties that last throughout the entire night. Dalish and Skinner are absent from their usual places on the training ring, and Krem is no longer sitting on his usual chair or barrel in the tavern. From then on, the exchanges and banter between the Iron Bull and Trevelyan are cold at best. Josephine sees these things and worries.  
  
So Josephine sends letters of her own, signed with the insignia of the Inquisition without Trevelyan’s explicit permission. She uses nobles to position a net of influence around the area and covers all their weaknesses. It’s a dangerous game to play, especially if Trevelyan finds out. But Josephine has grown up playing the Great Game. Her mother taught her the ways of war from the deck of a ship while her father taught her the methods of nobles from a gilded seat.  
  
The next time the Iron Bull casually mentions an increase in security of the area, Josephine feigns ignorance. “They gaatlok-proofed the bay,” he snorts. “Dunno how they think it’s gaatlok-proof, but I’d sure like to see them try.”

Josephine does not deign to respond, and she knows she’s won this time. A qunari is a qunari, and she knows that Trevelyan has won no favors or liking from the likes of him. In fact, Trevelyan spends more time pointedly looking away from him than she talks to him. He’s only there for his function and his purpose as a mercenary. She even paid the Qun’s price with the Chargers’ lives. Anything else is not worth their great Herald’s time. But Josephine knows his allegiances, and she takes care. One day, those allegiances may swing against them, and Josephine will be prepared.

Beside her, Cassandra muses, “Gaatlok. That is the fire that explodes from your dreadnoughts, yes?”

“Sure is, Seeker,” Bull drawls. “Blasts through things like nothing else. Real loud though.”

“Mmm,” Cassandra says with her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line, “And they proofed their defenses against fire that could tear a hole right through them.”

“Yup,” Bull says in turn. He draws out the singular syllable of the word out to an excessively length before popping the end of the word. Josephine raises a brow and he snorts, “No sense in talking about hypotheticals though. I’ve got no idea why they’d do something like that all of a sudden.”

Oh, he knows very well.

Josephine does too.

 

* * *

 

 Trevelyan finishes it all.

Her Anchor splits the world into shining, sharp light, and she casts everything in shades of green. Then, with her sword and the sheer rage that fires Trevelyan’s heart, she plunges it into his heart. Over and over, she raises her sword and slashes it down until black blood waters the ground that she stands on. With a swipe of her Marked hand, she opens a rip into the Fade and hurls his prone body in.

And that is all. That is the victory.

It ends just as violently as it began. The charred remnants of the Temple of Sacred Ashes settles on the ground, and the green light fades from the sky. The orb that Corypheus used lies shattered in pieces on the ground.

Cassandra doesn’t know what to think except of deep, grateful relief that floods her mind. She turns around, sword and shield almost dragging on the ground, and faces everyone else. Solas stands on the edge of the battlefield. His hands are stained with the soot of the destroyed orb, and his gaze meets hers. She sees the same weary burden mirrored in him, and he silently inclines his head towards her with a sense of finality. Cassandra knows that both of their burden is done. Hurt cleaves to hurt, after all; they have seen this struggle to the end. They can leave now. Well, _he_ can leave now. Cassandra will stay for Josephine. But with that, Solas turns and takes his leave.

Varric looks worn out. His cheeks are gaunt, and ever since Trevelyan left Hawke in the Fade, he appears like he carries around the burden of a corpse on his shoulders. Blackwall is absent, gone after Trevelyan exiled him and the rest of the Grey Wardens from Orlais. Sera remains despite her pure hatred of Trevelyan. Cassandra suspects she stayed only to protect the servants and scouts of Skyhold and Ferelden. Sera too looks at Cassandra, but she sticks her tongue out at Cassandra before she leaves too. Cole looks up and takes his hat off to set it gently on the battlefield. It soaks up black blood and grime and ash quickly, and just as fast, Cole fades out of existence. Vivienne’s expression is unreadable as ever, and Dorian is gone, banished by Trevelyan long ago. The Iron Bull stands still and regards the carnage with an impassive gaze. When his eyes meet Casasndra’s, he gives her an ironic salute with his hand. The stumps of his missing fingers shine wetly with new blood as he makes the motion, and Cassandra nods to acknowledge him too.

The victory is here, finally, at long last, but at what cost?

The Maker is not kind, but in this, he is kind enough to allow Cassandra the gift of survival. He also grants Cassandra the gift of her heart for Josephine also survives. They both make it out of this hellish war, but they don’t know what pieces they are missing yet. They only know that they still have their hearts with each other.

 

* * *

 

 “Why didn’t you make yourself the Divine?” Josephine asks, her tone light and casual. She forces her vocal register to stay in that space, safe and hidden and normal. She fears her fury will spike up through her voice if she doesn’t make it so.

The Herald regards her before she laughs. Lady Trevelyan can play this game too. “Are you not satisfied with the choice I made?” she wonders. “I thought Cassandra would be the perfect Divine.”

Josephine clenches her hand around her handkerchief. The edges of the stiff lace bordering the muslin cotton dig into her palm as she says, “I thought you would be the better Divine.”

Wrong. She thinks Trevelyan would make a terrible Divine.

“Really?” Trevelyan says, eyes raking up and down Josephine’s face, searching for a crack in the facade Josephine presents. Josephine only lifts the corners of her lips higher; she out of all people will not break underneath Trevelyan’s pressure.

Josephine relaxes her grip on her handkerchief and places it on her lap. She gestures over to Trevelyan and says, “Imagine the Herald of Andraste herself leading the Chantry into a new era. It makes sense, wouldn’t you say?”

Trevelyan dips her head as she laughs politely, covering her open mouth with her hand. “You praise me too much, Ambassador,” she says. “But I do not have the same standing and years of experience as Cassandra has. Maker forbid we ever put a mage on the Sunburst Throne, and ah, you already know how I differ from Leliana;s perspective. A woman like that should never be placed in such a role like the Divine’s.”

“Of course, Inquisitor, of course,” Josephine says with an incline of her head. “Well then, I have several propositions from a number of nobles in Orlais. With the war over, I’m afraid we have some loose ends to tie up.”

Business. This is where Josephine is comfortable with Trevelyan. Possibly the only place Josephine is comfortable with Trevelyan. Still, Josephine whets her anger into a razor-sharp edge as she goes over the various trade documents. Trevelyan must know the ramifications of what she did, what the Sunburst Throne demands from its occupants, and what Josephine cherished. And even so, Trevelyan did what she did. _What a cruel Herald,_ Josephine thinks. _A cruel Herald to match a cruel world._

Cassandra binds herself with words and oaths that mean more to her than life. Cassandra does not search for loopholes, does not prod through rules and documents to carve her own space out. And this means that Cassandra is — for lack of a better term — dumping her. Josephine bites her lip and flips the next page over with more viciousness than necessary. When Trevelyan signs the last paper, Josephine gathers them up and clips them onto her tablet, eager to finally leave her presence. She won’t deny that she blames Trevelyan for the situation entirely.

But the fact remains that Cassandra Pentaghast — _her_ Cassandra, her _heart_ — is going to be the next Divine with no one else but Andraste and the Maker by her side.

Josephine considers her options because that’s what she _does._ Her entire work comprises of searching through her options, prodding and pulling at connections, and making alliances that bring her what she wants. But how can she strike a deal with the Maker himself? How can she call on Andraste for a favor?

Josephine snaps the file shut on the documents and gets up. They curtsy to each other before Trevelyan escorts her to the door. When the door shuts, Josephine allows herself to stumble and shut her eyes against the tears that threaten to spill over.

 

* * *

 

The war leaves Cassandra bereft of faith. Josephine finds this out when she knocks on Cassandra’s door. It’s a different door, and when she receives no answer, she opens the door to see an opulent room. A vast bed, an ornate writing desk, a small statue of Andraste in the corner, and Cassandra, sitting in the carved wooden chair with the Divine’s hat in her lap.

Cassandra looks up to see Josephine, and a soft smile makes her seem angelic in the thin, morning light that streams through the barely-curtained window. Josephine pads over on silent steps and stretches her arms out. Cassandra rises, and the hat goes tumbling to the floor. Cassandra ignores it in favor of wrapping Josephine up in a tight embrace that says more than words could ever say.

“The hat,” Josephine gets out as Cassandra dots her face with soft kisses.

Cassandra pauses only to say, “Let it stay there.” She returns to her task with even more ardor, and Josephine wants to melt into Cassandra. What she wants more than anything else in the world is to bend and allow Cassandra free access, let her brush her gentle touch anywhere she wants, and simply love her in the purest form she can muster up. But this is something important. Josephine did not come to fuck Cassandra; she comes to talk.

So, she steps away and sighs, “We need to talk.”

“What about?” Cassandra asks warily. Her eyes fasten on Josephine’s blouse where she began untying the laces keeping the collar closed, but Josephine clears her throat. Reluctantly, Cassandra’s gaze drags back up.

“You are the Divine,” Josephine says. “And you already know what is the most traditional. What is expected from the Divine.”

“I know,” Cassandra roughly says. “I know, and I choose to ignore it. If the Maker does not approve me of me loving you, then I say that is a Maker unworthy of being worshipped.” She takes a step forward and nearly steps on her hat. “I do not know if the Maker is real anymore nor if Andraste was right. The ghost of Most Holy in the Fade… She confessed that she was not the real Justinia. If she was not the real Justinia, then Trevelyan was not the Herald. And if Trevelyan was never the Herald, then she has torn this continent open down to the bleeding heart with no other reason than her own rage.”

Cassandra stops to take in a heaving breath, and she chokes out, “We have destroyed so many things, Josephine, for the sake of this war. And we fought this war because Trevelyan declared it was for the Maker. If that kind of Maker declares that I can no longer love you, then I deny it and worship a kinder god instead. Please, Josephine, don’t turn me away now. I love you, and that is what I know to be the truth.”

There is nothing but betrayal and love and hurt all etched across the sharp, beautiful lines of Cassandra’s face. Josephine was not the only one to be hardened by this war. This war — _Trevelyan_ — has taken the faith out of a Seeker, and that same war made her poor, wonderful heart a Divine. Josephine lets out a shuddering breath and reaches out to grasp Cassandra’s wrist. She throws all care to the wind when she tugs Cassandra closer. She leans in to kiss Cassandra, and she can feel Cassandra relaxing under her touch.

She pushes Cassandra down to sit on the large bed and moves to straddle Cassandra’s lap. “You’re in a mood today,” she murmurs as she struggles with the strange new ties and buttons of the Divine’s robes.

Cassandra lifts her hands up to help Josephine in her task but reaches out to pull at the laces of Josephine’s shirt too. “You enjoy my moods,” she points out as her fingers wander over Josephine’s skin.

Josephine ignore her in favor of trailing kisses down Cassandra’s neck. By this point, she is intimately familiar with the lines and scars of Cassandra’s body, and she tosses the first part of the ornate robes aside. Sacrilegious by all cases, but Josephine doesn’t care.

She has to admit the irony of a holy war burning most of the faith out of them, but that is what war does whether it be an Exalted March or the burning path that their Inquisitor carved for them. Josephine kisses Cassandra once more and thinks, _let the Maker smite me down._

She loves Cassandra too much to care.

 

* * *

 

It is cruel of Josephine to be thankful for Trevelyan’s pain. But she does. She thanks the Maker — perhaps Fen’Harel is a more suitable god to thank — and she counts Trevelyan’s loss of an arm as a blessing. At first. She hopes that this is enough for Trevelyan to subside and lick her wounds. Stay quiet, hopefully. Retire to the Fereldan countryside with her Commander. Raise a few goats, a few cows here and there.

But the loss makes Trevelyan even angrier. It makes her raw at the edges and furious in all the wrong ways. She does not relinquish her Inquisition. She holds on to her armies and even straps on a blade as a substitute for her former arm in battle. Trevelyan grits her teeth through the pain and carries on. That is something that Josephine can grudgingly admire, but it also causes concerns for her. Trevelyan stabs a knife into the map of the war table and swears in a low, dangerous voice, “I’ll hunt that wolf down and skin him alive. He thinks he can stop me. He thinks he can be a god again. I’ll show him what divinity is.”

Josephine watches with wary eyes.

Trevelyan may have slaughtered a would-be god, but Josephine fears that their Inquisitor is poising herself to be the next god in the name of the Chantry. Still, Josephine marks down a note on a piece of parchment. Wars are not won with swords alone, and she will fight this war on her own terms. The last war made her sharper, and she will forge the next war into her chessboard.

She doesn’t know if her enemy will be Solas or Trevelyan, but she will be ready.  


**Author's Note:**

> the conversation you have with leliana where you either harden or soften her for good always struck me in-game, and i wanted to explore how the weight of a war would affect josephine. that made me wonder how my "worst" game state for dai would affect her, and thus, this thing was born a long, long time ago. i found this ancient draft about it and added a little bit to it over the past couple of weeks. although i wanted to make it into a multi-chaptered fic, i decided to let it go and leave it as the series of scenes as they were. i will admit that i salvaged a few thematic elements for [f!lavellan/cassandra fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657441/chapters/39057718), but other than that, this is it. 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what your thoughts on it were!


End file.
